the white bicycle part II

THE WHITE BICYCLE, Part II

EDITOR’S NOTE: I neglected to include the best “White Bicycle” prose piece in Friday’s posting which featured the three poems which best captured the image.

Part II leads off with the story by Jean Casey, followed by an at random selection of good poems which fell into a category the other judge and I saw as ‘the second wave.’ None of these selections are in any kind of order, they’re just good poems—which didn’t quite make the final three for reasons I previously mentioned. (And there are more, which I may or may not get around to featuring sometime.)

I would add one thing to the poetry finalists who were chosen and the prose writer. The other judge is an excellent reader, writer, editor who resides some distance from Wisconsin and would not have known any of the writers had I included their names—which I did not. I certainly expected there would be some disagreement over our choices, and we would have to work this out.

Once the noon deadline was reached, I made my final choices, in no particular order, just three poems and the one story I liked best, then awaited an e-mail from the other judge. There were no phone calls, no e-mail discussion between us. When the e-mail from the other judge arrived later in the day, I was beyond astounded to discover we both picked the exact same works! This almost never happens. —Norbert Bleib

The White Bicycle

by
Jean Casey

He had never won anything before, not a single thing, and now he had this amazing jackknife with all sorts of important attachments which made an important and heavy weight in his pocket. And all because of the Old Ellison Days parade. Oh, he knew it wasn’t a grand thing, but it was a yearly event with fire engines, some folks on horseback, an honor guard of veterans, a few simple floats, and a bunch of kids on decorated bikes and some politicians in shiny cars. This year they announced prizes to include the bikes. He didn’t give it much thought, because he was never a part of anything like that. Fat and slow with a hampering stammer, he hung around the edges of life. His 6th grade teacher tried, because she knew he was bright inside, but he avoided her help.

But this year, before the parade, he felt an urge to enter, especially knowing about the grand prize for bikes, that knife! It came to him one moonlit night when he lay in his bed before sleep that he could avoid somehow being seen as his lumpy self if he…yes! If he went covered up…yes, indeed! As a ghost! Everything must be white! His old bike was a dark maroon, rusty, tired. But, if he painted it…!

No way could he get by with this unless he consulted his mother. In the morning he found her with her mouth filled with clothes pins hanging a wash on the outside lines. She listened, fastening some socks with the stored pins. “The only white we got around here is flat wall paint left over from the living room, but you can use it, and you’ll need an old sheet to wear. I have one. We’ll have to cut eye holes in it, but that’s okay. I’ve got a chain link belt, come to think of it, that ought to help you cinch it in.”

He said, excited, “I think I’ll ask dad for his old straw hat! If he let me, I could paint it white too! I think a ghost should have a hat!” He didn’t stammer, she noticed.

Parade day, he said not a word to anyone, played his part, accepted his prize from the puzzled judge who asked for and didn’t get his name, because this ghost never talked. And now, the bike was propped up in back of the barn, and he would redo it bright red. His dad gave him money for the paint. The prize would stay in his pocket, unless he was at home whittling.

…remember the rides all the bikes in my life now white as ghost shadows.

Bonnie Hartmann

THE WHITE BICYCLE

by Sharon Auberle

when everything is falling apart my friend, when you’re stuck in the horse latitudes mired in a dark night of the soul when you’re no longer sleek sexy and smooth

find the white bicycle climb on that fat-tired slow beast pedal and huff and laugh like you mean it whistle sing shout and cuss use words your mama told you never to

push that bike up a mountain when you get to the top when you’re near to over the hill when night is falling fast jump on whoop and holler

ride that old bicycle down no brakes allowed fireflies and stars your only light and when you wipe out (and yes, honey, you will) darkness like a big pillowy woman will come along and wrap you up whisper everything’s gonna be allright…

no worries, baby, she’ll carry all your broken pieces home…

A WHITE BICYCLE

by Chris Halla

Parked here by an old man shaped like a question mark

Hoping a young girl in a yellow dress would eventually steal

his white bicycle away on a green, spring afternoon

The White Bicycle

by Alice D’Alessio

I dreamt I saw it standing all alone beside the blue barn wall. Ghost, what are you doing here? I asked, recognizing every feature – the torn seat, the gash in the front tire from the time we hit the tree; the dented fenders, handlebars minus their grips minus the bell that Mickey Loman stole; and best of all, the fancy chain guard – to keep my pants from catching on the chain and getting greasy. My first bike, bright and shiny blue it was and trimmed in red. It meant the war was over.

The shadowy background made the bike seem luminous. You’re lookin’ pretty good, I said, for an old guy. And then I thought I heard it whisper, You too. Let’s go race down Kaiser Hill, shall we? There’s still time.

The White Bicycle

By Don Fraker

Nearly an albino, But for her leathery dark barnacle of a seat, Tattered, betraying her age — Paint no cure for that condition.

Mobya was my vessel, Her now-departed basket ferrying books From their orderly, patient moorings at the library To the needy harbor of their offloading.

Got her in junior high, Whitened her in unspoken tribute to the first teacher who credited me with adult capacities, His brine-soaked incantations of albatross, and mutiny, and whale, Setting me a-sail on new-seen old adventures.

Though now my daughter’s ark, No more the carrier of tomes Of late evanesced, ether-borne, Her bleached carapace transports me still.

THE WHITE BICYCLE

by Ralph Murre

the way she rode it as much on clouds as on concrete

as much from as toward on a pavement of dream

the way I saw or didn’t see the way it didn’t seem she any longer needed me to run along beside

the way the ride then circled back in setting sun

the thing about a cycle is the way it’ll repeat

her white bike may come back may lean up again against my shack

who knows when a cycle or circle is complete?

Resurrection

by Paula Kosin

Even though it is not Easter My mother hauled her old bike, Tired, rusty but full Of fond memories, Out of the depths of the garage And in the cool shade Painted it white The color of the Risen Lord Of new life And alleluias And once she started She just spray painted the whole damn Thing Tires, spokes, chain, pedals, handlebars Every nook and cranny Figuring that if a little paint made it look better Then a lot would make it look wonderful And the dirt and scratches and rust disappeared Before our eyes Like a miracle And now it stands outside Starkly propped against the blue sky garage Drying and poised perhaps For her ascension into Heaven

other Norbert Blei web pages

Please click the arrow to see the complete list of writers on Poetry Dispatch & other Notes from the Underground, then click a writers name to see all entries. The number next to the writers name indicates how many postings belong to this category.

Please click the arrow to see the complete list of writers on Poetry Dispatch & other Notes from the Underground, then click a writers name to see all entries. The number next to the writers name indicates how many postings belong to this category.

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Norbert Blei | 1935 – 2013

On the back roads of Door County again

Norbert Blei – 2012

Photo by Bobbie Krinsky

Norbert Blei – 2012

Photo by Jeffrey Winke

Norbert Blei – 2011

Photo by Sharon Auberle

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